The energy to leave Jeffry's I would've found seeing that I did what I wanted without regard to consequences but the sudden burst of intense energy was boosted because of a pill. It went from No Doz to Quaaludes to doctor prescribed diet pills.
Nancy, a Hotel Sales work cohort, told me about Dr. Olivera.
“Nancy,” I shouted from my concierge desk to stop her, “you look so skinny! How?”
Nancy, her eyes wide like saucers, “I'll tell you but you can't tell anyone. His name is Dr. Olivera, here's his number. You get a vitamin B shot and you have to weigh more than you weigh now on your first visit.”
“What? What!” I yelled.
Nancy sped away from my desk faster than the speed of light.
I called the number and made an appointment for the next day. I put on extra shirts, thick socks, three pairs of tights, a coat type jacket and wide pants. I weighed myself, still 127 pounds. I looked in one of Jeff’s enormous walk in closets and looked at a pair of Jeff's snow boots. The doctor won't ask what size my shoes are, I reasoned. Two more thick wooly socks and the boots actually fit. I got back on the scale, 128 pounds, barely. I went to Jeff's office. I put a staple gun in a pocket and a box of paper clips in the other, still 128. This would require something drastic, but what?
Back in Jeff's office I went to replace the staple gun with a power drill. But you could clearly see the power drill sticking out of my pocket. I returned to the closet and put on his oversized airplane jacket with twelve pockets, six hidden. I put the drill in one of the large outside pockets and zipped it up, reasoning that the doctor had no reason to touch me. I removed the silly box of paper clips and walked to Jeff's exercise room. Securing three five pound weights in the pockets, I celebrated the extra twenty pounds and I even felt heavy! And there were still available pockets. Fishing around Jeff's toolbox, I zipped away a small screw, many dozens of large nails, a nail gun, and other silvery rusted things that I didn't know had a purpose. One more pocket. I saw a mini thesaurus and zipped it up.
I made a lot of noise walking to the bathroom scale; but why would the doctor question why I made happened to make noise when I walked? 146. That would hopefully be considered over weight enough for being 5'4” and for the pills I knew would give me an instant speed buzz.
The next day Jeffry was downstairs talking real estate with his father Seymour.
“Sheila, where are you going?” Jeff looked down his nose and asked.
At one of Jeff's doors, I prayed Jeff didn't notice his boots, or worse, that he'd try to hug me. “I'm taking a cab to Sport Authority to look for Snowshoes. Bye! Hi Seymour, I love you! Bye!”
“I'll take you, I'm going that way.” Jeff said.
“No! I'm going to race walk first! Bye!”
“You're gonna burn to death with what you got on. It's 85 degrees out.” Seymour wisely said with his upper back slumped forward and his hands in his back pockets.
“Okay! Bye!” I said and pretended I didn't understand. I held the five pound weights away from my body and race style tip toed as to not effect too much of a clanging commotion. In the taxi's back seat I couldn't sit because of objects poking into my rear end so I turned my body 60 degrees and leaned on one hip.
“Oh, fuck.” I thought when I walked into the full waiting room. The other patients weren’t a little overweight; they were obese. I did spot one lady at least, without a double chin. Adroitly I signed in and sat with my body facing sideways. Sweat rolled down my face and for 30 agonizing minutes I waited to meet my new drug supplier.
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